All the world's a stage
by Hauptmann Rivaille
Summary: AU.-This is were everything starts, and for Arthur, it is the moment to shine. For Francis, however, it is time to leave the stage, cursing time to be against him.


**ello! ello!  
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**God, it's been almost a year since I wrote/published something for this pairing. Not because I stopped loving them, though, actually I had a lot of ideas but NO time to actually write anything down ;_; Anyway, this was intended to be a multichapter at first but I always fail with those so I decided to go for a one-shot instead.  
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**I finished it like two days ago but wasn't able to publish it until now. I edited it under the influence of two very cold cans of redbull haha (long story) so I'm sorry if there are any mistakes. Also, there are a few notes/curious facts at the end so yeah.  
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**Without further ado, I hope you like it!**

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**Disclaimer: Hetalia and its characters belong to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

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_i._

Arthur walks down the corridors of the building, surrounded by people and wrapped in laughter and bustle. It is a regular corridor of a regular high school, with regular teenagers talking excitedly about parties, dresses, football matches. He knows that technically that's his world, but he often feels like an outsider. A strange locked in a place he doesn't belong.

The feeling is frustrating.

And that is the reason why every day, in the last period, he finds himself looking at the wall clock every two minutes, waiting for the bell to ring and let him be _free_, free to run to the theatre and do what he loved and enjoyed the most since those afternoons when, as a child, he'd stood on the edge of his bed, reciting poems taken from his father's books or reading the lines that the brave knights said in their stories, whilst an imaginary audience watched in amazement and rewarded him with a loud applause.

Then he could be a pirate, or maybe a magician, the possibilities were endless and wonderful.

Finally being able to act in a real play, stepping on stage and practicing his dialogues with other actors made him feel like that was where he should have always been. But, even after arriving at the theatre Arthur kept watching the nearest clock, waiting for an specific hour -although at first he denied it to himself- because then everyone would leave and he would be left alone, with him.

Francis Bonnefoy was his name, and he was the director of the play in which he participated. He was a mature man, with long blond hair that fell over broad but not too muscular shoulders, blue eyes and refined features. He had a kind of natural charm that made him even more attractive and that annoyed the hell out of Arthur because no one should be that enchanting without even trying.

The man, at the lack of a better word, was gorgeous.

Arthur secretly thanked his advices when he first joined the play, but eventually also learned to really enjoy his presence. Maybe a little too much; to the point where it was starting to scare him.

It was a beautiful yet inexplicable fear that grew whenever Francis laughed at his comments; when he answered wisely and well-articulated but without sounding like a man who thinks knows everything and who's just talking to a simple, ignoramus boy; when he greeted him with a smile; when that friendly smile changed into a mocking one, as if he knew what caused to Arthur that simple movement of lips; when he looked at him with extreme care when rehearsing his lines and Arthur felt the blue get into his core. And it was hard, sometimes, to maintain the act, and he hoped the Frenchman would not notice his afflictions.

Still, Arthur often wondered how someone as beautiful and intelligent, at times seemed to have his soul off.

He couldn't understand how those beautiful blue eyes sometimes seemed incredibly empty.

_ii._

The first time that boy set a foot in the theatre, he did it with a haughty look, with a slight air of arrogance, undeterred by the other actors even though he knew he was the youngest and inexperienced. He attended the audition with a neat appearance consisting of brown trousers, white dress shirt and a dark green jacket closed halfway.

Francis looked at him closely. There was absolutely nothing special about him.

He was skinny, medium height, neither his face nor his hair was something memorable and his eyes were of a common shade of green. The Frenchman sighed, already bored, and gave him the signal to begin.

Then he acted.

His expressions and movements turned him into a completely different person. His voice rose above the stage and his accent gave temper to his character. The eyes, which minutes before didn't show any kind of emotion seemed to lit up all of a sudden, and with a simple exchange of glances that couldn't have lasted more than two seconds, Francis felt his heart on fire.

Arthur Kirkland was accepted.

And he was accepted even though, considering that all the other actors ranged between twenty three and twenty five years old -not precisely old, but they knew what they were doing- having suddenly someone like Arthur, of seventeen - about to turn eighteen, he would argue-, seemed anything but a good idea to the director.

Surely he would have to be behind him all the time, correcting, scolding. But the boy proved to be more than capable of doing his part. He was responsible, learned his lines with ease and had an interesting sense of humour. (In the constant but not entirely serious disputes he had with his director, he could make the most insightful comments bathed in sarcasm and irony, beautifully marked up with that delicious London accent.)

It was more than clear that Arthur was quick to learn, so it was strange to Francis how the Brit stayed in the theatre even after all the other actors were gone. That's how they started with the extra-rehearsals and counselling sessions -although Arthur called them "mere opinions more or less useful" because it was not as if he really needed any kind of help, really- just between them.

Francis considering that he had nothing important to do at home after all and Arthur, on the other hand, didn't seem to be sacrificing anything either.

General rehearsals ended at 9, those of Arthur and Francis, at 11.

(With exceptions on the weekends, when a couple of old childhood friends of Francis -also singles, or as they prefer to call themselves "free"- invited him to go to a bar where he may end up knowing a divorced woman, some others pretending to be so, and sometimes grown men like him who were only looking to have some casual fun.)

With Arthur, two hours of extra rehearsals were more than enough, and as time wore on, one hour would suffice; the hour left until departure time was spent with the two of them talking about everything and nothing at the same time, sitting cross-legged above the stage.

Francis found that, besides being good in the histrionic art, Arthur knew a lot about literature and music and history in general fascinated him.

And they had endless discussions about all those wars in which France and England were involved. Arthur didn't measured at calling the French cowards or weak, with a smug smile on his lips, same smile that Francis watched in amusement and to which he responded seconds later with a light laugh, reminding him about his people's victory in the Hundred Years War and the excellent military leader Napoleon had been, earning a sarcastic remark about the battle of Waterloo.

A gap that several weeks after would be a constant torture in Francis' mind -when those green eyes haunted him in dreams and those lips whispered verses against his own- in moments like these simply disappeared completely.

And they kept talking and talking, because Shakespeare and Molière, Churchill and De Gaulle, were a separate matter.

_iii._

The routine is pretty simple, actually.

Say hello, buy a drink, flirt and take them to bed.

And Francis was good at it, extremely so, and he never felt the slightest personal interest in any of his conquests.

His only need was always under a suit or an expensive dress, there was nothing else to look at and he was pretty content with the situation.

"Happy" is sometimes a very strong word.

Tonight the woman is blonde, hazel eyes. She talks a lot but all her words are empty. He wonders if she is aware of the things she says or does it because that's what she is accustomed to. Or probably she's just pretending, like him.

She's boring.

He concludes that all of them always were.

He drinks more than usual to ignore her easily and go quickly and straight to the point. But not even in his bed, amidst white sheets, sweat and moans he finds a bit of excitement. Every movement is dull, her skin is ordinary, tasteless, and after a couple of kisses he tries to avoid kissing her again. The woman, head in the clouds, seems blissfully unaware of this.

When she leaves, giving him a smile that invites him to call her if he's ever bored -and _oh_, the _irony_- he is not even in a good mood. He lies down to sleep, and in the distance he distinguishes the script of the play he's currently directing. Despite having good actors and an original script, to Francis, with his twenty nine years old, it is just one more job.

It had been a while since he had lost the passion and dedication to what he once loved so much.

Suddenly, he smiles at a memory.

A conversation, of all things.

Doesn't dwell on it because it's something silly, and because the boy that comes to his mind may not think about their talks outside the theatre as he does at the moment. He may not think about him at all.

He smiles again and lets out a laugh, because Arthur is so unique, and may not even realise it yet.

_iv._

The Frenchman didn't know that all the passion he believed lost, somehow would return.

"Again," he said "but only the last part."

Arthur took a deep breath and nodded, with a serious expression, he began. The low light coming from the spotlight above him made his skin glow. The scene required him to give his voice a tinge of lust, but it was everywhere. In his eyes, his breathing, his body language. He approached the director slowly, completely in character, Francis lifted his chin as he watched closely every movement; Firm steps and piercing gaze that was suddenly difficult to sustain.

And it didn't really matter what he was saying anymore.

He was so close, so beautiful, so Arthur.

Francis held his breath.

Until the last line of Arthur's dialogue.

"I love you, would you stay with me?" He whispered.

And silence.

Yes.

_Yes._

Francis cleared his throat and stepped back, feeling that the other was too close for his own good.

"Perfect" he managed. Arthur blinked as if coming out of a trance and looked at him with an unreadable expression in his eyes. "I think we're done for today. À demain, Arthur."

After a few seconds Arthur nodded and let out a quiet "Good night" before turning around and get off the stage. He took his coat and backpack that were resting on one of the seats and exit the theatre.

_v._

The hallways were noisier than usual, and when he walked next to a chalkboard with a fancy add in black and gold pinned to it, Arthur knew the reason; the end of the school year was approaching, and with it the infamous prom.

Right.

If he was thinking about actually attending to said prom, he knew he needed to invite someone. A date. Because there was no point in showing up in complete solitude -plus it would be pretty pathetic to do so- but there was no girl in particular that had caught his attention. The girls, in any case, weren't even his thing, but in all honesty, he hadn't ever seen any of his classmates differently either. He didn't dare to even approach them.

Let alone ask them on a date.

But the idea of attending a dance itself was not entirely unpleasant -especially when he thought about the one person he considered would be his perfect date wearing a tuxedo, talking to him all night as if only the two of them were in the place and maybe, if the frog was lucky, grant him a dance. His long hair would be surely adopting the colours of the lights in the dance floor. He would be smiling and throwing his head back with every laugh, offering him the view of that beautiful long neck that seemed so utterly kissable.

Arthur frowned and walked quickly toward his classroom.

The idea was childish and ridiculous and he was being a fool.

He was not going to prom, he concluded once he entered his class minutes later.

_vi_

When it happened, it wasn't in one of their private rehearsals.

It didn't happened that rainy night when Francis offered to take Arthur home, staying in the car talking for over half an hour on topics of minor importance but arguing in all seriousness as if they really had it.

It didn't happened that afternoon when they found themselves in a park located a few blocks away from the theatre, ironically, both trying to escape and be free of the thoughts the other caused them.

It happened in a general rehearsal, after one of Arthur's most intense lines, where he says the words with such and absolute passion that his voice manages to make an echo in Francis' heart, all this in the presence of the other actors who remained completely oblivious. Where the actress finally accepts his love and he kisses her. Where Francis congratulates them and then disappears backstage, unaware that Arthur has left behind him.

The Brit found him with one arm leaning against the wall, forehead resting on it. Golden hair covered his face and his free hand formed a fist. Arthur came closer and placing one hand on his shoulder made him turn around, looking into his eyes. Francis was scared.

Francis was as lost, as confused and as terrified as him.

Arthur closed the distance between them and kissed him.

He pulled back a little to kiss him again, and again, and again, waiting for any kind of reaction with a knot in his stomach, hoping not to be mistaken or else he would look like a royal idiot. He moved his free hand to Francis' nape, fingers caught between golden locks. He filled him with short kisses until finally; _finally_ the Frenchman kissed him back. He took Arthur's face in his hands, deepening the kiss.

A quiet moan against his lips was all he needed to remember where they were so Francis broke the kiss, bring their foreheads together and shook his head, still holding him.

Like the one who knows has done something wrong but does not regret it.

Like the one who can't let go of what knows just cannot have.

Arthur released his neck and held his arms. "No, no..." he whispered, shortening the distance between their bodies.

_Don't say this is a mistake._

_Don't say this is wrong._

Francis looked into his eyes, catching his breath, "Arthur, this..."

"No."

The Frenchman kissed him again, slowly, tasting his lips as though it was the last time.

And then, he went back to the stage.

_vii._

It's Saturday night.

Arthur stands in front of the large mirror in his bedroom, takes a generous amount of hair wax between his fingers and passes them over short, blond locks carelessly. It'd be a total waste of time to try to stylize it; he has tried and failed thousands of times before and now he just hopes that with the help of the product at least his hair looks like is messy on purpose.

It's been three days since that kiss, three days he hadn't set a foot to the theatre.

He hasn't called to give explanations and Francis hasn't called him either. It's unnerving. Although it's not as if he knew what he was supposed to expect after such encounter.

If he had to expect something.

His jacket lies on the edge of his bed and he goes and grabs it. From the corner of his eye he watches Allistor's figure leaning against the doorframe. "I didn't think you'd go," he says, and then takes a bite of a red apple. Arthur shrugs his jacket on. The suit and tie are of a silvery grey and the shirt is black like the sleek and shiny shoes. "Who are you going with?"

"A friend." He replies, pulling at his sleeves.

"Hm," green eyes watch as Arthur walks up to the mirror again before continuing, "you look like an idiot." He smiles and takes another bite of his apple before walking away.

Arthur smiles to himself once his brother is gone.

He looks at his reflection for the last time and lets out a deep sigh, gently sliding his fingers upon his tie, almost as a reflex, trying to control his breathing.

He leaves home and walks on the sidewalk with his hands in his pockets, thinking about the last thing he had not wanted to think about for the past three days. But it's useless, he muses, to act as if nothing had happened.

Twenty minutes later, he's standing at Francis Bonnefoy door.

_viii._

Francis walks from his kitchen to the front door rather slowly, obviously not being in the mood to receive any visitors. He opens it and Arthur looks at him as if he too were wondering what the hell he's doing there.

The Brit, the moment the door opened, was greeted with a sweet smell, maybe cookies or maybe a cake; throws the thought away because in the end about gastronomy he knows nothing, and because the image in front of him is even more enjoyable. Francis wears a black sweater rolled up to his elbows and dark jeans, toes peeking underneath, pale skin contrasting with the dark wooden floor.

His hair is tied back in a ponytail. His whole face is handsome and exposed and his lips appear to hold back a smile.

"Hi," he says, after a moment.

"Can I come in?"

"Oh, sure," Francis shifts a little and Arthur makes his way to the living room. He glances quickly at the kitchen -or the little of it that he can see from where he's standing- and notes the variety of trays placed upon the aisle. It seems too much for a single person.

Francis makes a gesture with his hand indicating him to take a seat, gesture at which Arthur responds saying he's alright. Francis looks down, running a hand through his hair as an act of sheer nervousness since there aren't any loosen hairs on his face. He looks up again, "What's the occasion?" he asks, nodding at Arthur's clothes.

"Prom."

"Oh..."

"You don't think I've dressed like this just to come to see you."

"No, of course not." Francis rolls up a little the already rolled up sleeves. "But, it isn't a little late?" he asks looking at the wall clock.

Arthur snorts. "Says the man who's cooking sweets for one hundred people at this hour of the day."

Francis smiles lightly and replies before thinking of what he's saying. "I cook when I feel anxious."

"Why are you anxious?"

The Frenchman shrugs and silence reigns again.

"I'm not going, after all." Arthur says and approaches a small cabinet with glass doors located next to one of the sofas.

"Why not?"

_Childish._

"They're a bunch of idiots." he spats without really feeling it.

"Oh, it's such a shame," Francis mutters, as if talking to himself, and then shakes his head a little. "You look really handsome." He knows he shouldn't say that kind things, especially after what happened between them. But like it always happens when he gets nervous, when Arthur is in front of him, he acts without thinking.

The Brit, however, gets hurt a little by the comment. _But is not enough, is it?_

"Would you like to have some tea?" Francis asks rather loudly, as if this might hide -or delete- his previous comment.

"No." Arthur replies coolly, opening the door of the cabinet and pulling out a bottle of red wine. "I'd like to have some of this."

And because now it would be stupid to make a comment on whether or not Arthur is old enough to drink, Francis nods and heads to the kitchen to get a couple of glasses.

_ix._

The silence is tense, heavy, and not all uncomfortable but Arthur needs to know or else he's sure his chest might explode.

"Why did you kiss me back?" he asks suddenly, drumming anxiously his fingers on his glass and Francis is grateful to have swallowed his drink before hearing such a question.

"I..." he begins, and his hands feel sweaty. "Well, why did you kiss me in the first place?"

The green eyed boy frowns. "Don't try to turn this on me, why did you kiss me back?"

"I'll tell you once you tell me why you kissed me first!"

Arthur holds his glass with more force than necessary, drinking the last drops and placing it on the coffee table. "Do you really want to know?" Francis nods, leaving his half-full glass next to Arthur's.

"Fine, I..." he takes a deep breath "I kissed you because I am a stupid boy who cannot deal with ...with whatever this is!" He exclaims, gesturing between himself and Francis. "And because, apparently, I like to fuck things up!"

The Frenchman doesn't take his eyes off from him, and he continues, now with an alarmingly quiet tone of voice, eyes closed. "Now, now for the love of god, tell me why you kissed me back. I just need to know the reason."

Francis comes closer to him and wants to take his face in his hands and kiss him senseless for the rest of the night, without having to speak without having to think about anything. But refrains and simply turns on his seat. "I did it because... because I think I'm in love with a boy..." he smiles and exhales "but he's not stupid, he's wonderful... And it's me the one who likes to fuck things up." Doubts, but a couple of seconds later he reaches to caress the other's cheek with the back of his hand.

Arthur turns to look at him, green eyes looking into blue for some sign that tells him Francis is lying, that he's saying the things he's saying just to make him feel better, that he feels sorry for him being so naive.

But he seems completely honest.

Francis tilts his head and their faces are a few inches away.

And there lies the charm of Arthur's first words above the stage, of Francis' laugh, of green and blue and a kiss shared days ago.

Arthur 's breath quickens and his heart starts beating faster, because they are alone and Francis said he loves him and god knows how much he loves him too, and there is no chance that here, in the comfort of Francis living room, any third party might interrupt and discover what's going on between them.

He frowns slightly, because it sounds like they're committing a crime and there is nothing wrong with what they're doing.

Because they haven't done anything yet.

Such expression, however, disappears when Francis's lips are on his, and the kiss tastes like chocolate and mint.

_x._

Arthur spends the night at Francis' house and both sleep on the couch.

Not much, actually, because none of them could remain silent so they talked. They spoke with tenderly intertwined fingers, occasionally giving each other not very gentle squeezes as the product of some provocative comment.

They talked until the volume of their voices dropped and the sky began to clear.

It is the first non-sexual company that Francis has had in months, but he never felt so in peace.

Arthur arrives home early in the morning, walking slowly with his shoes in his hands in order to avoid making any noise and woke up his parents. Although he can't see him, his brother's voice calls from the kitchen.

"Was it fun?"

"It was amazing."

Allistor laughs and Arthur walks up the stairs, smiling.

_xi._

It is the actor's day off, and Francis seizes the opportunity to invite Arthur to dinner at his house.

He pulls up near the main entrance of a park, where the Brit would meet with some of the few friends he made in high school, waits for him inside his car and after a few minutes of glancing around he spots Arthur. He's talking excitedly to a young, Japanese boy.

He knows he's nothing more than a friend, yet there is something in that boy Francis doesn't like.

Something that increases when that boy says something and Arthur smiles; he smiles and is the kind of smile that Francis would like to see on a daily basis, a smile that he'd gladly have instead of all those comments full of sarcasm and cynicism that he gives him when there's people around. He can't say he doesn't enjoy them, because not even then Arthur stops to amaze him; but is that friendly, carefree smile that he would like to see when he is standing in front of him and there are people watching.

There is something in that boy that Francis hates. Because he speaks again and Arthur laughs, and he doesn't believe the boy knows the wonderful sound he has the ability to produce. Francis would trade it; trade it for moans and heavy breathings, his name coming from his lips overshadowed by lust. He'd trade it all for a genuine, sincere laugh.

But what Francis really loathes about that boy, is that the scene they're displaying looks natural, correct. Because that guy is seventeen, because suddenly seeing them together makes him feel older than he really is, because the urge to go and take Arthur's hand and take him away, so far away from everyone and everything with any stupid excuse makes him feel like an arrogant bastard.

Because Arthur should be with someone like him, and definitely not with someone like Francis.

For he laughs, smiles and is just him with his life and his years.

_xii._

Arthur's arms are clinging to his neck; semi-parted lips linger in front of his own before kissing him, biting him, mixing their breaths and whispering his name. Francis brings their foreheads together and he'd caress his face too if it wasn't because his hands are occupied feeling the rest of his body; so he kisses him, the lips, the flustered cheeks. He kisses down his neck when the Brit throws his head back, shouting his name one last time before his body collapses. Francis keeps moving, a little faster now, and a couple of kisses and a name later, he finally lies above him, tired, avoiding to drop his entire body over his lover's.

And this is the part, in the afterglow, when their act ends and reality is back in which always, since the first time they did it, that terrible feeling of guilt comes back to Francis' mind. And he realizes that it is just a miserable man who believes can beat time by holding it in his hands, holding Arthur in his arms.

Because those fingers trapped in his hair and that sweet breath mingling with his own made him stop it, play with it like a god; because years were nothing when he licked the little drops of sweat running down his neck, where he gently removed his bangs away to sink a little deeper into that green, a green that reflected his blue. When he'd smile until the boy's lips were smiling back, right before proclaiming Francis' lips as his own, kissing him as if the apprentice, the one that didn't know about emotions and movements was him.

He was taking too much from Arthur, and the boy should be with someone better for him; someone who'll do him well and have something to offer instead of taking away the most precious thing he had.

A hand removes a few strands of blond hair from his forehead and takes him out of his thoughts. He looks up and those half-lidded eyes look at him with tenderness, tenderness that he believes doesn't deserve.

But Arthur is smart; he can read him like an open book. He cups Francis' face in his hands, pulling him closer, giving him a sweet and tired kiss upon his lips.

The gap is still there, and the Frenchman abruptly pulls away to lean beside him. He looks up at the ceiling and places his hand over his forehead. Arthur sits up and leans on his elbow, staring at him, saying nothing, until Francis turns to face him.

"Stop it."

Francis does not respond and turns his gaze back to the ceiling.

He knows.

Arthur knows exactly what Francis is thinking and, at the moment, Francis hates him for that. He closes his eyes instinctively when slender fingers hold his chin and make him turn his face again. Another kiss, but this time almost possessively, as if trying to make a point.

"Stop..." Arthur says, with a sad look in his eyes. "I won't let you."

Francis meets his gaze; the other suddenly looks like a frightened child.

The thought bitters him a little more.

But like so many other times he stops thinking and gets on his elbows, blue eyes focused on the other's lips, making a silent request.

Arthur listens, and leans in to kiss him again.

_xiii._

Everything would be easier, Francis supposes, if he was just lusting after Arthur's body.

If Arthur was only an infatuation, something he could get bored of and then discard without leaving any sign that the Brit ever crossed his life.

It would be easier, he concludes, and exchanges sweet kisses for bites, caresses his skin with rudeness. The thrusts are wilder and he refuses to look into his eyes as he penetrates him, so that Arthur could realise that after all, he's nothing but a hobby to the Frenchman, that there is nothing more than want and need. To let him know he's being used.

Arthur knows what Francis is trying to do and by god if he knows how to respond, because he's stubborn, he's obstinate, he's Arthur. He clings to Francis' back as if his life depended on it, digging his fingers deeply into pale, soft skin as slender hands caress him brusquely; he imprisons him a little more with the strength of his legs around his waist, biting his chin and his lower lip and Francis is going crazy. Arthur kisses him, stroking gently his cheeks every time Francis looks away, and it's all too much and the older surrenders, blond hair soaked in sweat hiding his face in shame.

He opens his eyes and looks apologetically into those green orbs.

Arthur just smiles and removes his hair kissing his forehead, his nose, his lips.

In the end, Francis makes love to him in the sweetest way he can.

_xiv._

It's opening night.

And the first and the last, honestly. The play was a one night only, and all the actors knew it from the start; even Arthur.

It was something that really worried him just six months before, something that he avoided thinking at all costs. Because that meant he wouldn't see the Frenchman anymore because there was no need and he cringed slightly at the mere thought. At some point he planned on using this specific night to tell Francis how he felt, to take the risk. He had nothing to lose and after all one can always be hopeful. In some strange way a part of his brain wished impatiently for that day to come, the other, however, flatly refused.

Opening night is finally here and now, Arthur smiles behind the long red curtain, watching the seats gradually being occupied by the public. Behind him, the other actors were rushing, running around to finish dressing and some other practicing their lines with closed eyes and nodding as if that way the words were to stay in their brains for good.

He chuckles when another actor, Vincent, desperately asks if anyone has seen his glasses and gets angry when a dark haired boy, instead of answering him, mocks him. Arthur tells him that he have his glasses in his right hand. The man smiles, relieved, and says something about having his head elsewhere due to his nerves. Arthur just smiles back. He's also nervous, incredibly so. But there is something telling him that everything will be alright and in the end, he'd only need to walk towards Francis to know it was a wonderful evening. And that there were many wonderful nights to come.

Arthur blinks away his reverie when Vincent asks "Who is he?" nodding to a man with silver hair who talks to a couple of actresses.

"I don't know," He says, frowning slightly. "I hadn't seen him before."

"Neither do I... and where's Bonnefoy, by the way?"

Arthur blinks again a few times and gives a quick glance around him. Francis is nowhere to be seen.

He's about to go look for him in the other areas of the theatre when the mysterious man approaches them. "Hello," his voice is raspy and his eyes are of a peculiar shade of red. "Vincent and..."

"Arthur." He finishes.

"Right," the man nods slowly, gives Arthur a strange look and continues. "I'm Gilbert Beilschmidt, tonight I'll be the stage manager, considering your director's not coming."

"What?"

"Bonnefoy is not coming?"

"No," Gilbert answers simply. "But he told me that all of you were doing well during rehearsals so I basically will just make sure everyone's here and in time to perform. Oh, and also, that none of the lights fall upon your heads."

Vincent nodded, looking slightly scared at Gilbert's last words. "Okay, but why he isn't coming?"

The Brit looks at Gilbert almost unblinking, waiting for a response. He stares back at him, and Arthur can swear the man thinks he knows the answer. "He had to fly back to France."

"Oh, what a bummer, it would have been great to have him here isn't it?" He nudges Arthur gently and the other nods vaguely, without saying a word and without taking his eyes from the German.

_France? Why? Was it an emergency? Why he didn't say anythi-_

Arthur's eyes widen once he understood what was going on.

He did it, in the end, the bastard did it.

He decided to leave him.

"Believe me, he really wanted to be here." Gilbert says to both of them, but never breaks eye contact with Arthur. Vincent does not realize, but Arthur feels that his words are addressed only to him. He apologizes, and turns around to leave.

He closes the bathroom door, locks it and approaches the sink. He looks at his reflection in the mirror. His fingers grip the sink rather forcefully and his breathing is slow but heavy. His eyes start to burn but he prohibits himself to cry, not letting his face give away what he's feeling inside. He wants to scream but only tightens his jaw, his knuckles are white now.

"Why, why, why..." He murmurs quietly, looking down. "Why, you idiot." He closes his eyes and swallows, then, he opens the faucet and with cupped hands brings the water to his face.

He has to control himself.

After a moment someone knocks on the door and he looks at himself in the mirror one more time before walking out of there.

The show must go on, that's not how the saying goes?

_xv._

On stage, he focuses on his character, blocking any kind of thinking that has nothing to do with the play. It's almost as if he's in some kind of automatic mode. He's talking, he's moving, doesn't make a single mistake but at the end of each scene feels as if the one who just go out and faced the public was another version of him.

The real Arthur is within him, though. Somewhere, deep down inside.

The lights don't allow him to see the faces of those acclaiming him, but it matters little. He can hear it. He listens to the applause and embraces it, lets it wrap him in its warmth. He clings to it because it's all he dreamed at some point of his life, and despite the sharp pain located right at the centre of his chest; this is what makes him feel happy at the time.

For a moment, the real Arthur smiles.

The barely recognizable silhouette of a man who applauds from the top of the steps on the first level makes his smile falter. The man must have realised that Arthur saw him, because moments later he turns and walks away.

When the curtain comes down for good, Arthur ignores the comments of the other actors who were complimenting each other cheerfully. He practically runs to the lobby of the theatre. In his way, he also ignores the looks of several spectators that curious, wonder where is he going.

He exits the theatre and looks at both sides of the avenue. Hopefully there is no traffic at that time. He catches a glimpse of a black coat turning the next corner, and runs after it. There's the silhouette again, and he calls it. "Francis!"

The man stops but does not turn to look at him.

Arthur slowly approaches, and is about to call him back when man addresses him. "Congratulations. You were great." And then he keeps walking.

"Francis!" Arthur yells again. "Could... could you at least look me in the eyes?"

Francis stops again, and after a brief silence, turns. "Congratulations." He repeats with a sad smile.

Arthur keeps walking until the distance between them is no more than two or three meters. "Francis... why?"

Francis' smile drops, and responds, decided. "We can't keep doing this, Arthur. It's not fair."

"Fair? Fair for whom?" he demands.

The tone in Francis' voice is soft, calm. "For you."

He could see the steam of their breaths coming from their lips. It's a properly called November night, but Arthur doesn't seem to feel the cold through his shirt. "What are you talking about?"

"You already know."

Arthur frowns and his lips form a thin line.

"There has to be someone good enough for you," Francis continues "someone who deserves you and with whom you can be yourself. I 'm not that person you... you deserve better."

After a moment, the Brit drops his head and laughs humourlessly. "You bastard," he says, turning his gaze to Francis. More than sadness or disappointment there's anger in his eyes, and he explodes. "You bloody, selfish bastard!" his hands are shaking "You're telling me what you think but have you ever stopped even for a moment to think about what I want?"

"Arthur-"

"No! And you know why? Because if you had, we wouldn't be here, like this, and you wouldn't be about to run away like a fucking coward!"

A couple of strangers walking on the sidewalk, sped up their pace after watching the couple, fearful that they might start fighting physically at any moment.

"If you want to leave, fine. I'm not going to stop you. But, but I'll tell you this," He points at Francis with his index finger as if repressing a toddler. Francis could have smiled. "You, you fucking Frenchman, you are the only one I want to be with. Tonight, tomorrow, and possibly the day after, too."

"I want you, with your stupid hands and your stupid hair and your stupid one hundred pastries and that stupid belief that your people discovered Neptune."

At this, Francis really smiled.

"I do not want anyone else because..." He sighs deeply and drops his arms to his sides. "Because I love you." He ends. Saying the words as if it were something that he couldn't help.

Truth be told, he couldn't.

After a moment, when Arthur had already resigned that things were as they were and was about to leave, Francis speaks.

"But, we did..."

Arthur frowns in confusion, and when Francis looks at the sky and then back at him and smiles, his gaze soften. "No, no you didn't." He whispers walking forwards, slowly, barely containing his own smile.

Francis comes closer too, and when they were close enough throws his arms around him and kisses him.

Arthur's hands slid over the other's waist, burying his body in the heat emanating from him and his coat. His nose feels cold against his, and when he raises his hand to stroke his cheek he notices it is cold too.

"We should go back to the theatre, it's cold out here."

The Brit nods, but it wasn't until he separated from his lover that he felt the cold wind against his skin.

But it didn't matter, because there was a warm, cosy feeling in his chest, and because pale, delicate fingers intertwined with his on his way back to the theatre.

.

The End.

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**FINAL NOTES: **

**1.-The play in question was obviously fictional.**

**2.-The moments with Allistor (Scotland) were not necessary and not even planed at first but I created them anyways because I wanted to see Scotty being sort of a nice older brother to England. Just for once.**

**3.-Vincent is an OC. He's named that way only because my favourite actor's name is Vincent. (Vincent Cassel, my love.)**

**4.-Yay Gilbert.**

**5.-^ he obviously knew about Arthur. Never met him, but he _knew._**

**6.-"That stupid belief that your people discovered Neptune." this is a real thing y'all. **

**Although most historians agree France (Urbain Le Verrier) and not England (John Couch Adams) deserves the credit, they were arguing over it for years. I bet they still do. And since Francis and Arthur liked to talk about their countries and their history and accomplishments and whatnot, I just threw that one there~**

**OK.  
**

**There's an epilogue and I'll be posting it by the end of next week, I hope O:  
**

**Thanks for reading!**


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